At the Old Cotton Gin.
Ay, many a day for the old, old South,
He spun his fleece from a fiery mouth,
And wove his woof in a fabric of gold—
As a picture is painted, a tale that is told.
And he sat in his might, this fallen thing,
A hoary monarch, an uncrowned king,
And over the land
With an iron hand,
He flung his wealth with a gesture grand,